Waking up dead, p.7
Waking Up Dead, page 7
“Thank you,” I hear myself say and debate whether I should take the time to pee or just run out before my time is up. Kilian doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’ll make another pit stop any time soon, so I make time!
I throw Kilian’s twenty-dollar bill on the counter and head straight for the bathroom, glancing out the window for signs of Kilian. The flashy car is still parked where I’d left it, but my heart thumps with fear and anticipation. I don’t know what I’m anticipating because my gifts never really explain themselves to me, but expectation crackles the air around me.
When I turn my attention away from the window, I nearly collide into a waitress and slow down before I make a scene that’ll take more than the three minutes I intend to be in the bathroom. I shuffle in more discreetly and take care of my needs.
After washing my hands and throwing some water on my face, I dare a glance in the mirror and am surprised I don’t look worse. Sure, my dark hair is a mess, I have black circles under my eyes, and my breath smells like coffee. But I don’t look worse than an overworked waitress who works a second job.
I run out of the bathroom because there’s no time to waste trying to touch up the mess on my head and maneuver my way through the growing crowd to the front door. I take another peek at the window and stop dead in my tracks, fear crashing into me from behind.
The car isn’t there, the gaudy red gone from the dark parking lot. My breath catches in my throat and my heart goes into overdrive.
I practically run outside before a now-familiar voice chastises, “Whoa,” as I collide into Korday’s expansive back.
“Sorry,” I squeak and try to push past him because he’s blocking the doorway. “Move. Move, please!”
“Easy,” he grumbles and moves into the space where neon lights blare a shoddy welcome, one letter blinking every several seconds. I squint, anxiously looking for Kilian or the car. My stomach drops when I don’t see either, because I’m sure Kilian didn’t just abandon me. I’d love to think he finally obeyed my order and left. But it’s more likely my timing isn’t exactly his, and he thinks I’m late, lurking somewhere to kill the first person out of the diner.
I turn to Korday, wide-eyed and scared for him, because he's the first one who’d come out before me!
“Are you okay?” he asks with genuine concern.
“Go back inside,” I suggest frantically, pushing him back. Or, at least, trying to. He doesn’t budge an inch despite my effort.
But it’s too late. I freeze when I sense Kilian’s presence behind me, like I’ve sprouted dark wings. The weight of his cold hand on my shoulder makes me shiver with staggering fear, crippling me.
I can’t turn around, frozen in place and afraid to face the killer who’s incapable of killing me but won’t hesitate to hurt me. And there’s nothing holding him back from killing because of me.
“How?” Korday says with incredulity as I stare in fear. But his eyes aren’t fixed on me. He’s glaring over my head, the skin of his face rippling like wet cement, changing from chocolate brown to ashen gray and back. The top of his head stretches into two small horns that disappear seconds later, only to peek out again. The neon lights add to his macabre transformation.
“You’re a Gargoyle,” I mutter, realization hitting me like a ton of bricks.
His eyes, dark as night, penetrate through me when he asks in an accusatory tone, “You saved him?”
“I…” I begin, but what could I say? He’s right. I extended the life of the Vampire being hunted and nearly killed by Gargoyles. There’s no explanation that will justify the voluntary saving of a Vampire’s undead life.
“Abomination,” Korday spats at Kilian with judgmental eyes and a disgusted sneer. Guilt kicks me in the chest that I’d spared the life of a Vampire who isn’t worth saving. When Korday’s bulky form suddenly pulls away from me with disorienting force, I stifle a scream because he isn’t the one moving.
I am!
With unnatural speed, Kilian swivels me behind him, protecting me from the threat of the Gargoyle, even though Korday’s violence isn’t against me. I’d be grateful if Kilian were doing it sincerely, but he’s only following his Risen instinct.
Korday says something in another language, not Esperanto. I strain to listen because languages are my forte. It’s Latin! His voice, though, is freakishly deeper, more threatening, like the collision of boulders. Kilian responds in the same language, his voice like sharp steel. When Korday addresses me, I snap my eyes to his and shiver against Kilian’s back. There’s no anger or violence in Korday’s eyes. Just a deep abyss of blackness.
“You can come with me,” he offers in English. “I’m not alone, and we can subdue this abomination. We know what you are and can offer protection from him and… from others of his kind.”
Know what I am? Does he mean as an Animator, or a Ternion?
Kilian hisses, his body shaking with anger when he warns, “You will not take her without bloodshed.” Korday laughs, the thunderous sound like imminent violence sending a shiver up my spine. Kilian tenses in response.
“You cannot kill three of us on your own,” Korday scoffs. The heat from Kilian’s body goes up by degrees, and my heart smashes against my chest when he slowly turns his head toward a nosy onlooker.
The skinny guy in his forties watches behind thick black-rimmed glasses, curious about the unfolding drama outside the diner. He shrieks when Kilian grabs him by the face and smashes his head against the diner’s glass door with a loud crash. Glass splinters and shatters, but I only hear the thumping pop of the man’s head, blood and brains splattering across the stucco. The man crumbles to the ground, and my scream joins those of other witnesses to the unnatural violence.
Screams erupt around me, humans running from the scene of violence. I drop my eyes as a thick plume of black smoke gathers at my feet, billowing upward. It speedily wraps itself around Kilian legs, covering us in thick darkness. I barely have time to register what’s happening, much less heed Korday’s offer.
His black unnatural eyes beckon for me and I nod in desperation, reaching out to him from around Kilian’s frame. But Kilian grabs my hand in his, wrapping his longer fingers between my stubby ones. A long blade materializes in Korday’s hand, because his jeans are too fitting to hide a blade that large, and he only wears a Patriots T-shirt across his wide chest. By the time he advances on Kilian, the inky cloud has completely engulfed us and, too late, do I realize the smoke isn’t black smoke from a fire.
It’s crimson mist!
Much like cephalopod ink from octopi and squid, crimson mist is a Vampire’s defense mechanism when feeling threatened. Unlike octopi and squid that take advantage of the distraction to swim away, a Vampire can disappear through teleportation.
When the ground drops from under my feet, another scream is stifled by loss of breath, the air too thin to remain conscious.
Chapter 8: The Possessed Vampire (Suri)
A sickly thin body laid motionless on a hospital bed. The room was shaded by dark curtains blocking a deeper darkness that lurked dangerously close outside. The cadaver was more bones than skin, pulled back so tightly the nurses that attended him were unnerved the young man still clung to life. But they remained in service in exchange for the coin his wealth provided.
The young man knew their only fealty was to his money and that, if it ever dried out, they’d leave him to die in the opulent hospital afforded only to the most prestigious families of wealth and power. They were already showing hints of his suspicion and the money hadn't even run out. But neither had his final breath.
A familiar voice chatted away outside his suite, but Kilian was too weak to even smile. Even so, he recognized the unmistakable baritone voice, the rich laughter, and the glimmer of hope that he wasn’t going to die alone. After all, his newfound friend had visited him several times in the last several weeks since his illness became terminal.
The voice drew near, each word laced with laughter and youthful life, while the dying man’s youth had already withered away. When the door opened, Kilian couldn’t even turn his head to greet his friend.
“Ah, Mr. Willingham,” the man spoke jovially, in a heavily-accented voice, Irish or Scottish. “Good to see you awake. I’ve come about that proposition we’d spoken of last week.” Kilian blinked in acknowledgment and the other man, blonde hair too long to be an aristocrat and green eyes sparkling with life, softly closed the door. Kilian envied his youthful glow and even the man’s kindness. The friend didn’t have to keep returning to visit a dying man, but he’d come once a week with news of the world and the same offer every time.
“Come, end this life at my mansion in the hills, and start a new one with me.”
The same offer, week after week, as Kilian’s body deteriorated into nothing but skin and bones. His mind remained sharp, though, which Kilian resented the most because he’d rather be losing his mind along with the rest of him than live trapped in a body that was dying slowly.
“Still refusing laudanum, I see,” the vital friend commented, not unkindly. Kilian made a grunting sound that elicited a chuckle from his friend. “Good for you, Mr. Willingham. A man of your inner strength should no longer dwell in a dwindling body too small for your spirit. Will you come then?”
The man leaned over Kilian, but the decadent smell of death clung to Kilian even before it had claimed him, shaming him. It didn’t seem to bother his friend, though, who pressed in closer and repeated his offer in a slow, melodic tone. He’d done it before, his soothing baritone voice comforting Kilian.
Even so, each time the friend made his offer, Kilian politely declined, to which the friend would nod solemnly and admit, “Your spirit is strong, my friend. You deserve another life.”
To live his last days of shame and utter weakness was deplorable in a hospital setting, much worse among the living. But he’d begun to see the way the nurses and staff seemed too eager for his death. Careless in their ministrations with him. Remiss to bathe him. Sometimes, even eating the food meant to strengthen him rather than feed it to him. If Kilian didn’t die from his illness, he would certainly die from their neglect.
He managed a small nod to his friend, whose pinkish lips stretched into a genuine smile. But there was something unnatural in his green eyes. Something predatory. The kindly eyes that had brought comfort during the last few weeks now filled with emotionless blackness, completely concealing the whites.
Behind the smile, glistening elongated fangs dripped with thick saliva when the young friend cajoled, “Don’t worry, Kilian Willingham. Dubhshláin O’Cathaín, ancient Celt, son of the wilds, will take care of you.” He rushed to Kilian’s neck with unnatural speed and sank the fangs into what little muscle remained. Kilian’s mouth fell open in a silent scream no one would have heard, even if they tried.
A last, warm tear fell down the side of Kilian’s cheek, life finally releasing its hold on him, only to be violently wrenched back by a different form of virus. But also by something far more menacing.
Something far deadlier than death itself.
I wake with a sob jammed in my throat, my hand covering my neck where Tyran had bitten Kilian. The pain of memory is as real as that of psychometry. My heart beats erratically, matching my breath, tears streaming down my cheeks as flashes of death and Turning linger behind my eyes.
Another one of his memories slipped into my dreams and I’m caught unaware of the effect it has on me. As Kilian’s Mistress, I knew I’d have some control over him and would see and feel his experiences at the moment of touch. But, I hadn’t taken into account dreaming his memories, with all the feelings and emotions connected with them as a Seer.
I wipe the tears and take a steadying breath, nervously peering into the enveloping darkness. I’m no longer in the car or outside a diner watching a Gargoyle challenge a Vampire. I’m laying on a massive four-poster bed surrounded by red silk curtains. Past the silk, sunlight haloes thick curtains that block two windows along the left wall. Elaborate furniture adorns the loft, dominated by the bed and an unlit fireplace so big two Santas could fit through it!
I shift to get off the bed and nearly scream when I fall onto the body of a corpse! I scurry away on hand and butt, staring at it, and my heart clenches when I realize it’s not a corpse. I would’ve known it was there before I’d even woken. A sob breaks through when I recognize that it’s the same emaciated form of the Kilian from my dream!
The wrinkled pages of an ancient Romanian tome flash through my mind, one that asserts that, when Vampires sleep, they take their true form. But I had always understood it to mean the Vampire form, with fangs and monstrous features, though Kilian has always just looked hot and sexy. I definitely hadn’t expected that Kilian’s true form would be him on his deathbed!
His face is deeply grooved, his closed eyes sunken inside the bottomless pits of his face. Cheek bones poke out like steep mountain ranges connecting a bald skull to his sharp jawbones. His nose is thin and upturned over a small dry mouth stamped by pale, chapped lips, slightly parted.
I drop my head and weep in silence. Not so much for the sickly man Kilian had once been, no longer able to refuse the offer Tyran had made him. These tears were for my mother, who’d died of cancer and appeared the same way. Unlike Mama, Kilian had replaced a life of illness and death with one of blood and violence. While I pity the man Kilian had been, whose suffering I know through Mama’s experience and his memories, I can’t condone the Vampire he’s become.
The nosy bystander’s smashed-in head flares in my mind, and I blink the horrible image away, repressing the guilt of having been the cause of it.
I nearly scream when soft fur grazes my hand and Aislynn purrs against me. I let out a silent sigh of relief and gently run my hand over her back, reminding myself that she will protect me, even if Kilian doesn’t know how yet.
At least, I hope the treacherous little beast will protect me from him!
Slowly, I scoot away from Kilian, careful not to tilt the bed too much to not wake him. Luckily, the mattress is firm enough to not shake the dead. Aislynn watches me with wise, yellow eyes, but doesn’t move from Kilian’s side. I motion for her to come and nod encouragingly. She just stares. I frown, knowing she’s dissing me for him. Again.
I turn to flip my legs over the side and lose my balance on a step I hadn’t seen leading to the rugged floor. As a reflex so common among the fat and clumsy, I reach out to break my fall and grab onto the silk sheet wrapped around the four posters. The humiliating ripping sound breaks the silence and, to my shameful horror, the even louder thump of my body hitting the floor wakes Kilian.
“There are precisely thirteen Necromancers in the world at any given time,” Kilian snarls, and I jump to my feet at the cold tone that literally drops degrees in the room. “No more and no less, and I’m tethered to the clumsiest one.”
His words sting more than they should as I pick myself off of the floor and shoot back, “There are precisely thirteen Vampire Courts in every major city around the world that every Vampire belongs to, no more and no less, hence keeping a delicate balance of power monitored closely by the Vampire Courts Council, and I’m tethered to the meanest Vampire who belongs to none.”
His silver eyes narrow in a glare that reflects a nonexistent light since nothing is illuminated in the room. But his lip tugs in a wry smile that chokes my breath with fear. I don’t know what’s outside of this loft, but I’d rather take my chances that we’re not at another Vampire Court, since it would be counterproductive to escape from one and hide in another.
In a sudden move, I race to the door, but two barriers instantly block my progress. First, I’ve never been fast and my body weight slows me down considerably. Second, Kilian is already at the door before I can take three steps; his hands clenched into fists. My breath comes in spurts and I quickly move left of him, but he follows my movements so precisely it unnerves me. I swallow hard, then move to the right, but he echoes my movements, stopping me in my tracks.
I stand completely still and so does he, his eyes dark and his fleshy lips slanted in a wolfish grin. I’m not faster or stronger, or even smarter than him. But I am his Mistress.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and turn my back on him. The move is ballsy, not because he can attack me without my even seeing him, but because it’s my silent reminder that I don’t need to be afraid of him, robbing him of his control over my fear. He’s my Risen and can’t kill me, no matter how much he hates me.
I am fully aware, though, that it can also backfire because he’s already bitten me twice without killing me and can easily do it again regardless of whether I’m his Mistress or not.
I take measured steps toward the fireplace, ignoring the way the hairs on my nape stand on end, my primitive brain igniting the feeling of being stalked. I replace it with the confident truth that he is my Risen and I have the power over him to keep me alive.
When I reach the fireplace, I quickly busy myself trying to figure out how to light a fire, even though I don’t know anything about fireplaces or hearths. I just need a distraction from Kilian’s threatening intensity. It’s like he suffocates all the air and heat in the room. I find the firewood rack, pick up a manageable log, and place it in the hearth, followed by three more.
I jump back with a squeak when the fire roars to life without even having added kindling. I turn in time to find Kilian standing beside me, a flame of fire dancing in the palm of his hand.
“Pyrokinesis,” I whisper, failing to conceal the awe in my voice. Only the oldest and strongest Vampires are capable of such skills. Kilian responds only by closing his hand into a fist, extinguishing the flame. He no longer feels so hostile as he had seconds ago, so we stand in silence, facing the hearth. No way can this be called a comfortable silence, but it’s not threatening either.
I gnaw on the edge of my lip, questions piling on one another. When did Annette die? How long had Kilian been sick before he’d given in to Tyran’s seduction of life beyond the illness? Had it been cancer that had left him cadaverous and frail? Was that what Annette and his mother had died from?
